One Last Silver Dollar
by GreenMeansGo
Summary: Dean and his ring. Sometimes it's all he's got.


**Title:** One Last Silver Dollar  
**Author:** GreenMeansGo  
**Rating:** T/PG-13 for language and adult themes  
**Characters:** Dean, Sam, tiny bit of John. Gen. (Can be pre-slash if you squint)  
**Disclaimer:** I own nothing and am in no way affiliated with Supernatural. Song belongs to the Allman Brothers Band.  
**A/N:** I realize that the switching time frames can be confusing/distracting but it was somewhat intentionally done. Either way, it's sequentially going backwards in time. Hopefully there's enough there to get a general sense of when each drabble takes place, although the focus was meant to be on Dean's ring and what it means to him. Feedback/suggestions would be appreciated.

* * *

"_Don't look back" – John Winchester_

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* * *

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…**_look…_**

When Sam has his nightmares, Dean lies awake and watches through half-mast eyes as the light creeps under the flimsy motel curtains. If he shifts his hand _just so_, the meager glow glints off the silver ring he wears on his ring finger. He watches it flicker light back and forth until he hears the telltale whimpers.

Knows that when he shakes Sam awake, He'll feel the cool metal against hot skin. _I'm here, we're okay, I got you_ all rolled up in one touch.

…_**back…**_

It's February in boonieville, Montana and there's some deranged spirit that's luring little kids into the woods for supper by the threes. Dean hasn't slept in a thirty two hours and it looks about five minutes away from snowing.

"God, I think my fingers are gonna fall off." Dean bitches to Sam because he can, and adjusts his grip on his 9 mm. Never leave home without it, Dean thinks.

"Take your ring off, it's not helping with the cold," Sam suggests rubbing his own bare hands together for warmth. Dean is somewhere between surprised that Sam would suggest it and annoyed at the logic behind it. So much so that he says the first thing that comes to his mind, "But I could lose it."

And when Sam turns towards him with that stupid, goofy look of understanding tinged with touched, Dean wants to smack him. "Let's just find this dumb bitch and kill it."

…_**back…**_

"All by your lonesome?"

Dean looks up from his beer and almost laughs in the waitress' face at the irony of her statement. "Yeah. Yeah, I am." And he smiles back when she flashes some cleavage.

Later he's so messed up that he can't even fuck her and pushes himself away from the brick wall behind the bar and the girl leaning against it. He takes the "Fuck you," she throws at him and stumbles to the motel where Sam and Dad aren't waiting.

And after he's done emptying himself into the toilet and his head is spinning and pounding like all fuck, he drops slowly onto the bed, his right hand over his chest. He's so drunk that he can barely feel the metal against his bare skin. He rubs at the soft ache near his heart as he feels the irony of that too.

…_**back…**_

Dean slams his fist into some guy named Hank's face and knows Bubba feels the moment the hard metal and cheekbone make contact. He briefly wonders how this guy is cool with him hitting on his girl but wants to rumble over an innocent pool game. Well, he can't help but smile at that.

Not that it matters to Dean. He's got a werewolf up north to take care of and this guy is as good as any of the practice sessions Dad used to put him and Sammy through. So he spits, "C'mon, motherfucker," and watches as the fat biker flexes his hands.

His pocket is full, his back is to the wall, and he's got at least five guys between him and the door. But his ring is solid metal and he's thankful for that little extra oomph it offers as he keeps on swinging.

…_**back…**_

"So, I'll let you know my address once I find out, okay? And you have my cell number."

Dean knows he shouldn't feel that tiny spark of satisfaction at the uncertainty and undercurrent of fear he hears in Sam's voice. But mostly, he feels like crap, which he thinks might make up for it in the end. "Yeah, sure, kid."

Sam shifts from one ridiculously big foot to the other. Dean remembers not to grab him and make a run for the car just in time. This is what Sam wants, college, friends, normal. Not fighting the supernatural, miles of road behind him, artillery check ups. Not Dean, either. And that thought makes his eyes burn, so he turns to check the bus schedule before Sammy can see.

"Your bus'll be here in five."

"Yeah…Listen, Dean –"

"You got the money I gave you?" Dean doesn't want to hear the apology or the good-bye. Wants to tell him that not fucking leaving is all that he'll take.

"Yeah." And Sam is looking at him all sad and torn and Dean wants to scream and kick and cry but can't find it in himself to do it.

"Take care of yourself, you hear?"

Sam looks down and nods, "You too." Dean claps him on the shoulder and then pushes him towards the bus terminal entrance.

And when he slams the door to the motel room so hard he thinks it might crack in half, Dad purposely gone, he feels like someone who's lost half of what he's got. He punches in a wall and rips the silver ring off his finger and throws it as hard as he can.

Dean looks at the tan line, right there on his ring finger. The skin is smooth and white compared to the rough brown skin around it. Marked and lasting. Somehow he thinks its how it should be and he gets down on his hands and knees to search for his ring, slips it back onto his finger with relief when he finds it under the bed closest to the door. It's still a perfect circle despite the force he threw it with, the connecting ridge still there, running through the middle of the ring, and he remembers that it is solid.

…_**back…**_

They're driving through Wyoming and The Allman Brothers are playing low on the stereo. Dad is slumped and snoring softly in shotgun and Sammy is sprawled out in the back seat, his gangly legs jammed against the car door in a way that will have him bitching by morning. Its pitch black on either side of them and it's as if the world is holding its breath, just the three of them, driving forever. He supposes it wouldn't be so bad or even much different from how it's always been.

Dean loves the West with the horizon that shows what's coming for miles ahead and stars that never fade. It's almost enough for him not to feel the bone deep fatigue from driving all night. He smiles slightly as he taps his ring against the steering wheel to the opening cords of 'Midnight Rider,' listening to the _ping ping ping_. The world could fucking stop and he'd never realize. Everything he needs is in this car, within reach. He supposes that's not so bad either.

_And I don't own the clothes I'm wearing, and the road goes on forever…_

Not bad at all.

…_**back…**_

Dean can still feel his hands sweating with the remnants of panic even as his father reminds him to salt the door before he leaves for his own motel room next door. Two hours ago, he had left Sam, vegetating in front of the static television in their room at the Red Roof Inn. He'd gone into the bathroom for a ten minute shower and had come out to an empty room, all traces of Sammy gone.

He had been frantic, running up and down the two motel floors screaming Sammy's name, gun full of rock salt tucked in the band of his jeans until dad had gotten back. Then shit really hit the fan. Dean thought the look dad gave him when he gushed about how Sam had just disappeared would melt the flesh off his face, demon style. Dean was told to stay put while dad checked the laundromat and the diner down the street.

His heart had been pounding, ears ringing with fear and adrenaline as he saw him come back without Sam. Saw that dad was about three seconds from losing it himself. They were just packing their things to go out on a full on hunt when Sam bumped the slightly open door with a small foot and glided in, practically _skipping_. Dean took in the chubby cheeks flushed from the winter cold and the pleased gleam in the eyes that held the same color their mom's had. He was going to fucking kill him.

"Sam!"

Sam straightened at their father's tone immediately and took in their state of hurried panic. Dean had watched as understanding slammed into Sam, cold and dreadful. Sam had always been bad at taking care of himself and it scared Dean like no other. It also pissed dad off. Dad asked where the hell he had gone and Dean had almost screamed with anger himself when Sammy only shook his head after flicking a glance at him. Needless to say, dad went to town on Sam and promised extra drills for the next two weeks when he started to cry.

Then dad had turned on Dean and gave it to him good for losing Sam in the first place and what it meant to be a big brother.

Dean is relieved, pissy, and still hyped up as he wordlessly turns the light off and lies down on his bed. Sam hasn't spoken since he had tearfully apologized an hour before and is facing the wall on his bed, still in his clothes. Dean fights the reflex to rub his hand up and down his brother's back and sighs instead. He's just falling asleep when he hears the strain of bedsprings.

"Dean?" Sam's voice is still hoarse and tearful and Dean desperately clings to what anger he has left.

"What?"

Suddenly Sam is in his face, young and small, and very very sad looking. "Please don't be mad at me."

Dean sighs and sits up as he feels the anger slip between his fingers and into the darkness of the room. "We were just worried, Sammy. You know better than to leave without telling anyone, after dark none the less."

"I know!" Sam nearly shouts before seemingly collecting himself. "I know," he says more calmly. "I just didn't want to ruin the surprise." His eyes are huge in the meager light that slips through the curtains from the nearby freeway. Dean can still see the dried and fading tear tracks on his pale face.

"What? What surprise?"

Suddenly Sam is holding a ring out in his palm, shiny and round. He doesn't get it.

"What's that for?"

The look he gets in response would be comical if it wasn't aimed at him and coming from his baby brother. "Your birthday," Sam deadpans, voice so incredulous that it takes a second for the words to register. Dean sits there for a beat before twisting around to look at the glowing numbers on the nightstand. 12:06 am. He'd completely forgotten.

"I bought it at a stand back in Utah. I skipped lunch to buy it," Sam says, his words come fast, just a little uncertain. "I went the church to get it blessed today. That's where I was. It's steel. The lady said it was solid."

Dean is so shocked from forgetting his own birthday to having Sam getting his ass whooped so that he wouldn't 'ruin' _his_ surprise that he can't do much more than stare.

"Go on, take it. Do you like it?"

Dean inspects the smooth ridge running through the middle, metal cool on his palm before he slips the ring onto his finger.

His throat is surprisingly tight and feels a warmth for his brother that's not unfamiliar flare, fire and brimstone, cleansing him clean, "It's very cool." He ruffles his hair when Sam smiles something bright. "I'll always remember you gave it to me, Sammy Sam," Dean says teasingly because he really means it, down to every word.

Sam rolls his eyes but lets the name debauchery go this time, understanding. "Happy 16, Dean," he says in that quiet way that's becoming distinctly _Sam_ and Dean smiles in the shadowed room, watching as the light glints off the ring when he shifts his hand just so.


End file.
